


Shinra Archives

by karanguni



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Gundam Wing
Genre: Crossover, Drabble Collection, Multi, random guest appearances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of assorted drabbles, mostly centred around the Turks and/or the occasional Gundam Wing crossover piece in where Treize pretends that manicured eyebrows are part and parcel of SOLDIER life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone Swimming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elemental/gifts), [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



Shinra executives were like cockroaches. WEAPONS didn’t kill them; they always had to be hunted down and exterminated. Rufus knew; he was one of them. So when the beginning of the new world order came about, he told Reeve that the WRO ought to just shut their eyes very tightly while Shinra got their hands just that little bit dirtier.

Of all the incongruous places in the world, they finally found Heidegger in Costa del Sol, hiding in plain sight. They sent Reno, possibly because he didn’t tan well, but more likely because Tseng might’ve ripped Heidegger limb from limb for auld lang syne.

Reno found Heidegger on one of the private offshore islands. Ambition had apparently lost its charm for the old man; instead of ruling the world, he’d taken the money and ran all the way here. Reno tipped the beachboys (god, what a job they must do) and strolled onto Heidegger’s private deck at 4 in the afternoon. Heidegger was sprawled on a deck chair like a pufferfish out of water. He never noticed Reno approach.

'Piña colada?' Reno asked when he was right beside Heidegger, and poured the drink he was carrying all over Heidegger's face.

The next part was even messier, but eventually Reno had Heidegger on the edge of the dock. The water around here was deep; the island fell off pretty rapidly. Heidegger’s hands Reno had bound with zipties. 

'You know,' he told the ex-executive conversationally, 'I could've finished you off on dry land, but I figured, why not be a little creative? We Turks have really missed doing it your way, so in the spirit of your island lifestyle, here we are.’ Reno knelt down by Heidegger and gestured out at the open ocean. ‘Brave new world, isn’t it?’ 

He patted Heidegger on the cheek, and stepped down the dock to the little boat he had come in. He’d brought some luggage with him — bags and bags of gil; old currency that the WRO and Shinra were now phasing out in an effort to stop the crazy inflation that gripped Edge. Worthless money. What an oxymoron. Reno hummed as he brought the backs back up to Heidegger, who was watching him with bloodshot eyes.

'You'll —' Heidegger gasped as Reno tied bag after bag to his ankles.

‘“Never get away with this?”’ Reno finished on his behalf. He slapped Heidegger on the cheek, just a friendly love tap. ‘I’ve been getting away with this for years, sir. Anyway, it’s time for you to go on a long vacation.’

Reno grabbed Heidegger by the hair. Heidegger howled for all ten steps it took to get him onto the very end of the dock. ‘Don’t you know that it’s better?’ Reno sang, ‘Down where it’s wetter?’ And he pushed Heidegger off the edge.


	2. In The Summer

Some days. There are just some days when the top-side heat gets so unbearable that starched collars melt against warm, sticky skin. Summer in Midgar is a wretched season. The inside of buildings turn into refrigerators, vents sucking in heat and expelling it twice-fold out onto the streets. The concrete of the Sectors blurs in the mid-afternoon. Everyone becomes inevitably irritable. The suite of Administrative Research offices at HQ becomes a small oasis of industrial air-con and free coffee that the Turks instinctively gather at in an attempt to distract themselves from the murderous weather. They crowd around Tseng’s desk like it’s a watering hole, gossiping.

Today, a half-joking bet is going around. It starts, as it does, with a casual ‘Hey boss,’ from Reno. ‘When was the last time you hit the streets?’

'Two months ago,' Tseng replies easily. He's working, fingers tapping quietly against his keyboard.

'When's the _next_ time you’re going to hit the streets?’

'When it becomes necessary,' Tseng tells him.

'We've all been doing our fair share cracking skulls and breaking bones the last two months,' Reno bitches. 'What'll it take for you to roll up the sleeves?'

'It's got to get mundane working the bureaucracy,' Elena cuts in. 'Hours and hours of Heidegger and Costa del Sol.'

'Rufus,' Reno bets. 'I bet it'll be the Veep. All that helicoptering to Junon just to fucking babysit a puppy.'

'If you're volunteering, Reno,' Tseng says, dangerous.

Reno huffs and turns to Rude. ‘What d’you think?’

Rude doesn’t bet. ‘This is a stupid wager,’ he says.

'You scared to think about what Tseng feels when he's not filing papers?' Reno asks, flipping his mag-rod casually across the back of his hand; a familiar and well-loved action that's part grace and part a promise of impending violence. Missions during the summer always end messily.

'Tseng can hear you, you know,' Rude points out.

Tseng is, in fact, listening, but he never censors his men. Reno in particular seems to think that, if he slouches against his chair and has enough of his shirt artfully tucked out with enough buttons undone, it will eventually do something to Tseng’s self control. The look Reno gives him, filthy and full of suggestion, is engineered to provoke. ‘Yeah, well, maybe we’re wondering if he’s ever going to get his hands dirty again.’

Tseng arches and eyebrow, but doesn’t stop typing.

'What a waste of talent,' Reno shakes his head, propping his feet up onto his desk. 'What're you working on, boss?' he asks lazily. 'Crossword puzzles?'

'Accounts,' Tseng informs him, still not breaking from his work.

'Sounds boring.'

'It's actually quite informative.' Tseng looks up for long enough to say, 'For one, I know precisely how much collateral damage you incur when on assignment, Reno.'

Reno’s eyes go half-lidded. ‘All part of the job, you know, unless you don’t remember what it’s like out on the field?’

'I remember,' Tseng reassures him, turning away for long enough to shut his computer down. Then he leans back in his chair and addresses Reno, hands draped on the armrests. 'Unlike you, though, I usually damage people, not property.'

Reno puts a hand over his heart. ‘You wound me, sir.’

Tseng undoes a blazer button. Reno’s eyes track the motion. ‘Why,’ Tseng asks, ‘are you so eager to, as you put it, have me roll up my sleeves?’

'Because,' Reno breathes into the now-quiet room, 'I like it when you ruin good tailoring.'

Tseng allows himself to smile, and reaches down to open a desk drawer. He leans back up again a moment later, tugging on his gloves.

'Gloves in the summer.' Reno is smiling an unpleasant, electric smile. He salutes Tseng, ironically, with the mag-rod. 'Bless you, boss.'

'Everybody go home,' Tseng commands, standing. His fingers are clean and pale against the black of the cut-off leather; his tie is a noose around his throat; the sun outside is setting on a burning urban playground. 'I'll be on duty tonight.'


	3. Gundam Fantasy VII - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vouksen replied: i’d read turk wufei (and his secret passion for swords instead of guns)  
> vouksen asked: if wufei is a turk, would treize be a SOLDIER

'It's not _practical_ ,’ Veld sighed.

'That's not the same as _impermissible_ ,’ Wufei grunted, standing put where he was amongst the shelves of the weapons inventory.

'Chang —'

 ’I thought we didn’t go by surnames in Administrative Research?’

'Wufei,' Veld said, firmly. 'I won't stop you, but I'll have you know that you won't be doing yourself any favours by using those.' He cocked a shoulder at the set of swords that were stored on the inventory wall.

'Shinra's already taken my country apart and reduced it to a tourist destination full of foreign exotics,' Wufei said, reaching for one of the swords and slid it out of its protective sheath. He frowned in distaste. 'How badly kept.'

'We don't keep our swords quite up to the standards of the Kisaragi kings, I'm afraid,' Veld said, crossing his arms over his chest in resignation.

'The Kisaragi haven't been kings for a long time,' Wufei grunted, removing another two swords from the case.

'But royalists still exist,' Veld said, looking evenly at Wufei. Wufei was the first to look away, an irritated — or ashamed — expression shaded into his regular state of displeasure. 'Fortunately for us, we now have something of a specialist in our corps.'

'Spare me the propaganda. Just give me the uniform.'

'Those are tailored.'

'Hah!'

* * *

 

'He thinks he's so fucking _fabulous_ ,’ Genesis said, rolling his eyes and twirling a wrist and propping his legs up on the mess table all in one motion.

He seemed entirely unaware of how hypocritical he sounded, but Sephiroth — who went through about a bottle of shampoo a week — couldn’t find it in himself to say anything about it.

'With his _eyebrows_ and his _background_ and his _etiquette_ ,’ Genesis continued. ‘God, I can’t stand Treize.’

'Are you going to spit on the floor to wrap up your little diatribe?' Angeal asked, coming over with a tray of food.

Genesis gave his fellow SOLDIER a jaundiced look. ‘Spitting is beneath me.’

'I'm sorry you're not as fabulous as Treize,' Angeal said, comforting, as he settled down next to them.

'None of us are as fabulous as Treize,' Sephiroth added, intending to be reassuring. The look Genesis gave _him_ was a thousand times icier. ‘What?’

'Sephiroth,' Genesis said, dragging his booted feet off the table. 'You have fanclubs for your _hair alone_.’

'It takes work,' Sephiroth said, defensively.

'It takes vanity,' Angeal corrected.

'I've earned the hair,' Sephiroth said with great finality. 'It's not a problem during missions —'

'— all of which you now give to Zack,' Genesis cut in.

'— _so leave it_.’

'Eyebrows don't get in the way of missions, either,' Angeal put in, chewing his food thoughtfully.

The mess doors swished open. ‘Gentlemen,’ Treize greeted them all. Angeal, focused on his curry, gave the man a one-handed salute; Sephiroth nodded in simple acknowledgement.

‘ _Ugh_ ,’ went Genesis.

 

* * *

 

 

For most of SOLDIER, Midgar is a dream fulfilled. A majority of recruits come from home towns that might be kindly described as rural at best and isolated at worst — Banora, the outskirts of Kalm, places where agriculture and industry go to die. The city, with its bright, mako-powered lights and towering architecture, is to these recruits entirely alien and mystifying. Midgar’s a bit of a drug — at first, it’s just where you live when you’re not training, but soon it becomes your home, then your mistress. SOLDIERs never find it hard to get invitations to parties or clubs. It’s part and parcel of being part of Shinra’s vanguard force.

Some SOLDIERs, though, come from Midgar itself — not the slums, _Midgar_. Treize is by far the most well-known of this small cohort, but Zechs, too, is local. Nobody really knows much about his actual background, but there are whispers every now and then about his too-blonde hair. Why else would he hide behind that mask all the time if it weren’t something so scandalous as to involve Shinra _himself_ , the man and not the company? 

As it were, it is known that Zechs has money that he doesn’t use, contacts in the city that he doesn’t care much for, and a social calendar almost as full-up as Genesis or Treize’s. Much like Sephiroth, however, Zechs keeps to himself.

'They probably have long, torrid conversations about hairdressers,' Genesis speculates. He and Angeal have just finished welcoming a new set of Banora recruits, and it's put Genesis in an awfully good mood.

'The amount of time you spend thinking about Treize's life is seriously concerning,' Angeal tells him as they enter the First Class locker rooms in HQ, ready to change out into civvies.

'I don't care about that twit,' Genesis dismisses Treize. 'It's Zechs I want to know more about.'

Angeal snorts. ‘Every now and then, some stupid Third Class will mention how much he looks like Director Lazard, and then that Third Class ends up shovelling shit alongside AR for weeks. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?’

'But no one ever dares to mention how much Rufus Shinra resembles Zechs,' Genesis muses, pulling off his fatigues and pulling on something skin-tight that probably offends every one of Angeal's sensibilities. Only one of them stayed a Banora boy at heart, and it certainly wasn't Genesis.

Angeal, transformed by a simple work shirt and jeans into just another guy, shakes his head. ‘Sometimes you talk too much, G.’

Genesis stretched briefly, then began to head out. ‘There’s a big thing happening tonight at Ersatz; one of the President’s new favourites is hosting. They invited me — want to come along?’

'No thanks,' Angeal shook his head. 'Though I can tell you now that, if you're going just to see if Zechs turns up, you're in for some disappointment.'

'And _you_ know where he spends his days off, I suppose?’ said Genesis, eyebrows raised.

'Maybe,' Angeal said.

———————-

'This is a soup kitchen,' Aerith tries to explain to Zechs, who is carefully and methodically and very adroitly slicing carrots into perfectly equal rounds, 'Not a gourmet restaurant, Zechs.'

'All the same,' Zechs says with equanimity, sliding the vegetables into a pot.

She sighs, but doesn’t protest. She may even be smiling. ‘I appreciate you coming down here; not many SOLDIERs do.’

Zechs had come down to the slums with four bags of groceries and an apron underarm. ‘Not many SOLDIERs care, unfortunately.’ He peers out of the kitchen door and into the small dining area. There’s a girl, a big black man, and two other guys seated up front. None of them look remotely homeless. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Ms. Gainsborough, your soup kitchen keeps strange company.’

Aerith doesn’t bother looking to see what Zechs is referring to. ‘Oh, they’re,’ she murmurs, wiping her hands distractedly on a kitchen towel. ‘Special guests.’

Zechs throws a glance back at her. ‘Anti-Shinra?’

Aerith meets his eye. ‘Pro-Planet,’ she says firmly. ‘They’re not necessarily the same thing.’


	4. Marlboro Light

Because Shinra wasn’t exactly the behemoth organisation it had been, getting things done in a world after Midgar was solidly a hands-on affair. Rufus, when he’d still had the energy, was the proud President of only four remaining Turks; that left him reloading his shotgun more often than his ink cartridges. When Tseng and Elena had gone missing, he’d been on the helicopter headed to the north alongside Reno and Rude. And because Shinra wasn’t the behemoth organisation it had been, the three of them hadn’t exactly been thoroughly outfitted.

'Wonderful,' Rufus said, looking at the marlboro in front of them. The chopper couldn't handle the terrain any farther down, so it was either fight or leave 50% of his Turks to die. 'Reno, Rude, go ahead.'

'President,' they objected immediately, but Rufus was already preparing his shotgun.

'We don't have much time, I'd wager,' he told them, and jerked his head at the ribbon tied across his right arm. 'And I'm the only one who's properly equipped. Go.'

The two Turks looked at each other, logic warring against protectiveness, but eventually nodded. Rufus fired a warning shot two feet away from the marlboro; it began to ooze it’s much-tentacled way towards him, during which Reno and Rude took the opportunity to skirt around it and head down to the cave.

'I miss paperwork,' Rufus sighed, then the marlboro threw up all over him.

The beginning marks of the Stigma all over Rufus’ body flared up in a sudden wave of excruciating pain.

'Hello, President Shinra,' something— some _one_ behind the slow approaching marlboro said. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last.’

Now it was Rufus’ turn to throw up, and he sincerely hoped some of it splattered onto the silver-haired man-boy that stepped out from behind the creature. Rufus recognised him from the video that had been sent to Haelin.

'I see you're already infected,' the man-boy said, using the katana in his hand to gingerly lift Rufus' soiled shirtsleeve up for long enough to see the tell-tale skin rash. 'But, just in case, we'd better make sure you really _do_ have a front-seat ticket to the Reunion.’

'What?' Rufus coughed, trying to lever himself up enough to stand. Even with the Ribbon, his head was thick with fog. He saw the boy stroking the back of the marlboro's head like it was a well-loved pet, and noticed, just barely, that the marlboro's secretions were entirely the wrong colour.

'President Shinra,' the boy said, 'come a little closer.' Then he was urging the marlboro to extend its tentacles out to Rufus in what, no doubt, was going to be the most loving of embraces.


	5. Apathy

If there’s one thing about routine security detail work that is unbearable, it’s the interminable boredom; the endless repetition. Tseng’s resigned to the fact that money and power, besides being the root cause of most of the soul’s corruptions, also encourage the blight of sameness. Whether it’s the President or Heidegger — and tonight, it’s Heidegger — it’s always the same: the same places (reserved tables at expensive restaurants; the most private of private rooms at the Honey Bee, and so on) with the same people; the same script played out on a different day. Tseng serves some of the only people in Midgar who have genuine freedom at their disposal, and they do nothing with it.

Tseng leans, waiting, against the back door of the discreet but loudly expensive car that will soon scoop Heidegger up and transport the man to his apartments. He doesn’t sigh, nor does he smoke, nor does he tap his feet. Tseng’s very good at waiting. He’s become very good at becoming part of the scenery; one other expected object in a long, long series of expected objects. Heidegger comes staggering out of the Honey Bee’s back exit half an hour later. He has a hand around a woman’s waist. Her hair is black like Tseng’s, and when she speaks she has the same accent that Tseng used to have as a child, until it got wrung out of him. Heidegger titters at her, carefree and drunk.

Tseng tries, for form’s sake, to dredge up some feeling of hatred for the man; to care that Heidegger and his generation of company men played a pivotal role in the slow but systematic erosion of Wutai. Tseng tries to remember that he’s not from Midgar; that, a long time ago, he had a home “out East” before the East was ever invented by Shinra’s virtuosic public relations department. Tseng tries to imagine Heidegger, that crude and ignorant and privileged man, as the enemy. For a moment, Tseng digs, and deeply, into himself in an attempt to muster up outrage about the economic realities that immigrants from Wutai have to bear. He wonders, briefly, if that woman across from him is his ally, or if she thinks of him as one of hers; the two of them united by the invisible bond of their ethnicity and/or class, and/or language.

But the moment passes, and Tseng doesn’t find it in himself to do much of anything except to lever open the door for Heidegger. The woman Heidegger pulls in alongside; take-out for the road home. Tseng catches her eye before she vanishes into the inside of the car. She blinks at him. He blinks back. She will, presumably, have Heidegger defenseless and naked on his supremely unfit back in about an hour. Tseng himself has a gun and no little training with materia. Yet neither of them will do anything. He shuts the car door, and slides into the driver’s seat.

If Tseng were to take the time to examine his feelings — which he doesn’t, since he’s cleverer than that — he would likely admit that the only emotion he’d been able to dredge up was a vague want: a desire to escape this unending and boring repetition of small insults and small injuries. But Tseng won’t reflect upon those feelings. What he will do is his job, which he will perform admirably and without fault, because Tseng’s greatest asset is neither martial prowess nor strategic genius. It is, rather, his ability to deny and ignore the enormous hypocrisies and the everyday tragedies that Shinra leaves behind in its wake; he is, after all, one of those inconvenient truths: the only difference is in his survival.


	6. Summer Nights

Some days. There are just some days when the top-side heat gets so unbearable that starched collars melt against warm, sticky skin. Summer in Midgar is a wretched season. The inside of buildings turn into refrigerators, vents sucking in heat and expelling it twice-fold out onto the streets. The concrete of the Sectors blurs in the mid-afternoon. Everyone becomes inevitably irritable. The suite of Administrative Research offices at HQ becomes a small oasis of industrial air-con and free coffee that the Turks instinctively gather at in an attempt to distract themselves from the murderous weather. They crowd around Tseng’s desk like it’s a watering hole, gossiping.

Today, a half-joking bet is going around. It starts, as it does, with a casual ‘Hey boss,’ from Reno. ‘When was the last time you hit the streets?’

'Two months ago,' Tseng replies easily. He's working, fingers tapping quietly against his keyboard.

'When's the _next_ time you’re going to hit the streets?’

'When it becomes necessary,' Tseng tells him.

'We've all been doing our fair share cracking skulls and breaking bones the last two months,' Reno bitches. 'What'll it take for you to roll up the sleeves?'

'It's got to get mundane working the bureaucracy,' Elena cuts in. 'Hours and hours of Heidegger and Costa del Sol.'

'Rufus,' Reno bets. 'I bet it'll be the Veep. All that helicoptering to Junon just to fucking babysit a puppy.'

'If you're volunteering, Reno,' Tseng says, dangerous.

Reno huffs and turns to Rude. ‘What d’you think?’

Rude doesn’t bet. ‘This is a stupid wager,’ he says.

'You scared to think about what Tseng feels when he's not filing papers?' Reno asks, flipping his mag-rod casually across the back of his hand; a familiar and well-loved action that's part grace and part a promise of impending violence. Missions during the summer always end messily.

'Tseng can hear you, you know,' Rude points out.

Tseng is, in fact, listening, but he never censors his men. Reno in particular seems to think that, if he slouches against his chair and has enough of his shirt artfully tucked out with enough buttons undone, it will eventually do something to Tseng’s self control. The look Reno gives him, filthy and full of suggestion, is engineered to provoke. ‘Yeah, well, maybe we’re wondering if he’s ever going to get his hands dirty again.’

Tseng arches and eyebrow, but doesn’t stop typing.

'What a waste of talent,' Reno shakes his head, propping his feet up onto his desk. 'What're you working on, boss?' he asks lazily. 'Crossword puzzles?'

'Accounts,' Tseng informs him, still not breaking from his work.

'Sounds boring.'

'It's actually quite informative.' Tseng looks up for long enough to say, 'For one, I know precisely how much collateral damage you incur when on assignment, Reno.'

Reno’s eyes go half-lidded. ‘All part of the job, you know, unless you don’t remember what it’s like out on the field?’

'I remember,' Tseng reassures him, turning away for long enough to shut his computer down. Then he leans back in his chair and addresses Reno, hands draped on the armrests. 'Unlike you, though, I usually damage people, not property.'

Reno puts a hand over his heart. ‘You wound me, sir.’

Tseng undoes a blazer button. Reno’s eyes track the motion. ‘Why,’ Tseng asks, ‘are you so eager to, as you put it, have me roll up my sleeves?’

'Because,' Reno breathes into the now-quiet room, 'I like it when you ruin good tailoring.'

Tseng allows himself to smile, and reaches down to open a desk drawer. He leans back up again a moment later, tugging on his gloves.

'Gloves in the summer.' Reno is smiling an unpleasant, electric smile. He salutes Tseng, ironically, with the mag-rod. 'Bless you, boss.'

'Everybody go home,' Tseng commands, standing. His fingers are clean and pale against the black of the cut-off leather; his tie is a noose around his throat; the sun outside is setting on a burning urban playground. 'I'll be on duty tonight.'


	7. Zoom/Pan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elementalsight: Hooker: Tseng and Zack.

'This is by far the strangest assignment you've fobbed off on me yet,' Zack said to Sephiroth while looking down at his PHS and reading off his mission parameters. 'I'm supposed to go to Wutai… and join a prostitution ring?'

'Read better,' Sephiroth sighed. 'It's not a prostitution ring. It’s a surveillance mission.’

'You mean,' Zack translated, squinting at the fine print, 'I'm basically going over there to hang out with a prostitute so that I can gather dirt on some bigwigs?’

Sephiroth paused. ‘Pretty much.’

'Wow,' Zack said.

'You'll enjoy this mission,' Sephiroth assured him.

Zack’s eyebrows nearly climbed off his forehead. ‘Was that innuendo, S?’

Sephiroth looked at him. Zack saluted.

——

'You,' Zack said to the prostitute in question upon his arrival in Wutai, 'were not what I was expecting.'

'Wrong anatomy?' Tseng asked archly, and opened the door to his very expensive apartment to let Zack in.

'Nice place,' Zack commented, ducking to ensure his equipment didn't bang up against what looked like a very well-varnished and soft wooden door frame.

'It serves its purposes,' Tseng told him, and shut the door behind the both of them.

——

'So,' Zack said, staring at the one-way mirror as they stood in the small antechamber off of Tseng's… office. 'I'm guessing I'm not the first SOLDIER you've had…' He winced, but bravely finished, 'in here?'

'The first SOLDIER,' Tseng shrugged. He gestured at a small monitor and control panel. 'Record what you need, when you need it. You can stream the audio feed as well.'

'I'm guessing this is normally Turk territory,' Zack sighed. 'Which means I'm not going to get any answers to any questions at all, am I?'

'I don't mess around with Turks,' Tseng agreed. 'Here's the zoom.'

——

One week in, and Zack was already sick of waking up at 11 in the morning after staying up all night watching the fattest, ugliest, richest men of the Western Continent clamber all over Tseng.

They were having lunch together; take-out, oily and hot. ‘So,’ Zack said, mouth full of rice, ‘what’s your story?’

Tseng actually stopped eating. ‘If I had a dollar for every individual who’s ever asked me that,’ he said to Zack.

'Was that rude?' Zack asked, quizzical. 'It was an honest question. Me? I'm a Nibelheim boy, but I guess that was kind of boring, so.' He gestured broadly at himself. 'Now I swing swords and follow a guy who's face turns up in as many shampoo ads as it does military reports.'

'Quaint,' Tseng told him.

'If we're going to be stuck together until I get enough footage,' Zack said, curling his fingers in air quotes as he spoke, 'then we might as well get to know each other.'

That, at least, made Tseng smile. ‘Ever wonder why I speak with a perfect Midgar accent, Zack?’

Zack’s mouth dropped open a little.

——

'That's it — you're a Turk!' Zack said.

Tseng rolled his eyes and went on calmly lining his eyes. ‘The only people Turks prostitute themselves to are surnamed Shinra.’

—-

Zack snapped his fingers. ‘Covert affairs for the Wutai royalty?’

Tseng hummed as he curled his hair into soft waves.

——

'Just really good at sex?' he asked, finally. 'I give up, just tell me.'

Tseng was sitting in a bath of epsom salts. Turned out that his job involved its own kinds of bruises. Zack’s job was to keep the hot water flowing when Tseng wanted it, and to hand over compresses when ordered.

Tseng sighed. ‘I was born there. Grew up. Almost got recruited by Administrative Research.’

'But?' Zack said, because that sounded like the kind of life story that needed a “but.”

'Didn't fancy shooting people,' Tseng said, reaching over for another compress. 'I thought I had a choice in the matter. I was close to their leader.'

Who lead the Turks? Zack had no idea; he just knew Reno, who flirted with SOLDIER like it was his job. Which it probably was. ‘Close?’ he asked, handing over the compress.

'You don't have enough mileage with me to get an answer to that,' Tseng said.

'Er, okay,' Zack said, backing off. 'So how did you end up here if the Turks wanted you on their team?'

'Like I said, I thought I had a choice. I figured I could bargain. But time ran out. Immigrant visa issues,' Tseng said, smiling ironically. 'Shinra doesn't like the Plate getting covered with undocumented immigrants. My parents never thought that paperwork could do anything, so I had none. I ended up back here, where my kind of people aren't particularly well-loved either.' Tseng brushed the back of his palm over the mark on his forehead.

'That's a…' Zack ventured, 'Religious thing?'

'More cultural,' Tseng corrected. 'Ethnic tension isn't reserved for Shinra alone. In any case, I barely spoke Wutainese, couldn't find a job after being summarily relocated to a country I'd never been to before, and ended up on the street.'

'No heroes from AR come to rescue you?' Zack asked.

'AR doesn't buy things that no longer have value,' Tseng shrugged. He motioned for Zack to drain the water from the tub. 'One day, I went home with someone. I was aiming for a hot meal; I got that and the equivalent of three thousand gil. The man must have made some assumptions. I didn't clarify the situation; I just took the money. The rest is history. Zack?'

'I'm staring, aren't I,' Zack said, flushing red and grabbing two towels. One he handed to Tseng. The other he left on his lap. 'I hope you don't take this the wrong way,' Zack said, awkwardly playing with the edges of the towel. 'I am extraordinarily attracted to you, but…'

Tseng threw him a look. ‘It’s my job to make people attracted to me; why would I take that,’ he gestured at Zack’s lap, ‘the wrong way?’

'Word choice,' Zack said faintly as Tseng stood and dried himself off.  
'Anyway,' he bustled, trying to bring the conversation back around. 'You have some pretty up-there type of clients now.'

'I'm not stupid,' Tseng said. 'And Wutainese didn't take that long to learn.'

Zack held open a soft robe and helped Tseng into it. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Tseng, tying the belt, said, ‘Don’t pity me, Zack. After all,’ Tseng smiled. ‘I earn more than you do.’

——

It took Zack two days to calculate how much he thought he earned as a Third Class.

'There's no way,' he said to Tseng. 'There's just no way.'

'The Turks did swoop in a few years later,' Tseng told him. 'They have a larger payroll than SOLDIER.'

'Then why don't you quit?' Zack asked.

'They pay me not to,' Tseng said.

——

'Oh thank god,' Zack said three nights later, footage safely copied in three different formats. 'Time to go home.' He looked over nervously at Tseng, who was freshly showered after that latest… session. 'Is it,' he ventured, 'still home to you, too?'

Tseng just looked at him, calm and wordless.

'You could call the Turks,' Zack said quietly, looking down to avoid Tseng's eyes. 'Just, you'd probably have to learn how to use a gun.'

Tseng put one strong, finely boned hand on Zack’s shoulder. ‘I already know how to use a gun,’ he told Zack. ‘I just don’t usually pull the trigger.’


	8. Other Callings

The first time Wufei meets Rufus, it’s a shitshow. Reno just chills out and lets it happen, because why not.

‘ _You_ are Rufus Shinra?’ is the first thing out of Wufei’s mouth the minute Reno and him get out of the elevator and enter Rufus’ palatial Junon apartment. Rufus is sitting in a chair, doing something that looks suspiciously like homework.

Rufus, to his credit, doesn’t so much blink. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’

 

* * *

 

Wufei looks outraged, like he can’t believe that the scion of the family which basically destroyed his home country has the gall to be a normal-looking, unmuscled teenager. ‘I was expecting,’ Wufei says imperiously, ‘someone more impressive.’

'Well,' Rufus shrugs, 'you're welcome to write this essay on the history of Shinra's expansion for me, if you'd like.'

'Okay,' Reno butts in, because he can tell that Wufei is about two seconds away from drawing one of his ridiculous swords on the _Vice President_. ‘Let’s not go there, all right?’

'Why do you serve him,' Wufei asks, turning to Reno.

'Because he's the Veep?' Reno responds, earning himself a disbelieving look from Wufei.

'You are Turks, you could be doing something more productive - or at least less asinine - than _babysitting_.’

'Thank you,' Rufus calls from where he's being summarily excluded from the conversation.

Wufei pauses. ‘Why _are_ you babysitting the Vice President?’

Reno shrugs. ‘He once tried to overthrow his father by being a double-mole and funding a terrorist organisation, then when that failed sort of blackmailed his way into Tseng’s confidences.’

Wufei blinks.

'It's a long story,' Rufus assures him.

 

* * *

 

Forty-eight hours later, Wufei and Reno step off the helipad at HQ and head to the Turk offices to swap out with the next lucky team on, as Wufei so kindly put it, babysitting duty. 

As they’re changing out into street clothes — or, better put, as Wufei’s changing out into street clothes — Reno says, ‘I think you missed your calling, Mr. Grand Master of Snark. Ever think of being a comedian?’

'No,' Wufei says shortly.

'Thought not,' Reno sighs, pushing himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. 'That said, it _is_ very attractive, seeing someone talk up the VP like that. Ever think of letting me suck you off?’

Wufei stares at him. ‘Are _you_ trying to be a comedian?’

'Nah,' Reno says. 'Aren't I much better off a Turk?'

They look at each other.

'Ha ha ha,' Wufei says, three forced sounds that might have been considered laughter, in some other dimension. Then he points to the ground. 'On your knees.'


	9. Zombies

'For fuck's sake,' Rufus said, emptying what was left of his shotgun into the skull of one that had managed to get close enough to their barricade at Haelin. 'They're worse than corporate sheep.'

'They're certainly more persistent,' Tseng agreed. He had a very basic handgun, but his shot was far and away the most accurate amongst their small band. If they were keeping count — and they weren't — his would have been the highest kill count. Tseng aimed, fired, and another zombie crumpled with a belaboured moan. Tseng reloaded even though there were no visible remaining threats. 'Come on.' He jerked his head to the armoured vehicle behind them. Rufus got into the passenger seat; Reno and Elena and Rude squeezed into the back. Tseng drove, heavy footed. The Lodge burned behind them: it'd been compromised three days ago and there was no point trying to stay.   


'Where to now?' Reno asked from the back.

'Where else?' Rufus said, laying his shotgun on the dashboard. 'Tseng, take us to Edge.'

 

* * *

'Absolutely not,' Cloud told Rufus. He was standing, arms crossed aggressively over his chest, in front of the armoured entrance to the orphanage. 'I have kids here I need to take care of.'

'How are you going to protect them,' Rufus asked, 'when it's the Stigma that makes them turn?'

Cloud hesitated. That was all Rufus needed.

 

* * *

They sent Cloud out to work on the Kadaj angle, and moved into the orphanage. It was gruesome, exhausting work. The armoured gate was really more to protect the infected children from the citizens of Edge than it was for warding off stray urban shamblers.   


One day they’d be in the playroom, laughing along with everyone else. The next, you never knew.

Tseng reloaded his gun even though there were no visible threats remaining. 

'I'll take the next one,' Rufus said to him quietly as Tseng wiped himself down with a towel soaked in antiseptic. No one knew if that worked to keep the Stigma at bay, but it helped get the blood off. Reno and Rude were taking the small coffin out back to be burned. 

'No need,' Tseng said tightly.

'I insist we take turns,' Rufus said, rubbing a thumbnail over the black patterning on the back of his hands. 'After all, the one after that might be me.'


End file.
